Retribution
by Laurennke
Summary: Sometimes you can't escape your past. When Marguerite de Ghent feels unjustly sentenced to a life of servitude, she flees the castle. But with the whole of France looking for her, can she throw off her old life and begin anew?
1. Prologue:Trial and Circumstance

**Retribution**

**Prologue:**

**Trial and Circumstance**

For once, everything was quiet. The breeze blew gently through the barred window, bringing with it the scent of spring: jasmine and daffodils from the flowerbeds of the townhouses, apples from the orchards over the hill and grapes drooping from their vines just waiting to be picked and fermented.

Marguerite de Ghent watched the dying sunlight as it caught the specks of dust floating in the air. The shadow of a bird flashed across the grey stone wall, piercing the silence with a warble. As she watched the sunlight fade away, Marguerite noted that its disappearance marked the end of yet another year spent caged in the tiny room.

She rubbed the back of her neck – peering up at the window set high in the wall always caused her much pain – and resumed ripping apart a straw of hay, smiling with satisfaction as she tore strand after strand from it and discarded them on to the cold stone floor. Marguerite was past caring that dirt clogged itself underneath her jagged fingernails, her skin was brown with muck or that her blonde hair was greasy and in desperate need of a wash. She was no longer the whining, spoiled brat of an adolescent who cared only for herself and was conceited enough to believe that she, out of all of the eligible maidens of France, was certain to marry a royal prince. Ten years in the Bastille had hardened her and crushed all hope she had left.

Marguerite de Ghent was notorious for the suffering she had caused Prince Henry and Princess Danielle. Peasants and the bourgeoisie alike would come by to gawk at her and whisper behind their hands to one another at her incarcerated state. They used to come in droves, queuing up for hours with handkerchiefs held to their noses for their chance to point at and ridicule a person who had fallen so far, accusing her of committing every kind of transgression. If someone else had been in her place, Marguerite imagined that she would come by too, to laugh and make a mockery of the infamous Comtesse de Thiernot.

And didn't she look a sight! She sat in clothes that were cleaned but once a year, in a building where, when the wind refused to blow in, contained the stench of hundreds of other poor souls convicted of wrongdoings, which infiltrated her nose to the point where she would dry retch and long for the country air she had once been so disgusted with. Marguerite had had everything – wealth, privilege, the eye of many a nobleman. But all of that was lost now. Just as her mother had once taken hold of and caused havoc to Danielle and Jacqueline's lives, so had Rodmilla wrecked Marguerite's.

The sound of boots stomping against the stone floor echoed down the hallway. One of the girls Marguerite shared her cell with jumped up and pressed her face against the bars of the door, straining to see who was making the noise. She had murdered her husband when he had discovered that she was having an affair, after her lover promised they would run away together. Now, every time someone passed by the door, she thought it was her lover coming to rescue her from the horrors of the Bastille. It never was.

"Marguerite de Ghent?" boomed the cantankerous voice of the prison guard. Marguerite's cellmate gave her a disparaging look as she slumped back down in her corner to mourn her fate. Marguerite dropped the remnants of the hay she was holding, and eased herself up from the ground, feeling her back creak and her blood rush to her legs, punishing her with prickling sensations for sitting down for too long.

It was long past afternoon, which seemed the favourite time for her ill-wishers to come and make their stabs at her, and Marguerite hadn't received any actual visitors who were there to care about and worry after her since she had first walked through that cell door. Flicking back a lock of hair that had escaped from behind her shoulder, she peered through the darkness to the shape illuminated by the light of a torch. The flickering flame cast large eerie shadows on the walls and highlighted the features of her visitors that were usually in shadow, making them look like strange creatures from another world.

There were three of them – the hunched prison guard, with his prickly demeanour and sour face; the torchbearer, a young boy who could not have been not older than twelve; and a young man, who Marguerite could only assume was her visitor. His dark hair was cropped close to his head and his brow was furrowed. As her eyes continued looking, she could just barely glimpse the insignis of the House of Valois – a dragon of gold – embroidered on his clothing. She felt her body grow tense. Her grip on the iron bar of the cell door tightened. What would a member of the Royal Guard want with her after all of this time? She had been quite certain she would be left to rot in the Bastille. Surely they had no other punishment to deal to her?

"Who are you?" Marguerite spoke after the prison guard had retreated into the darkness. Her throat felt dry and her voice sounded scratchy as her own words reached her ears. She could not remember the last time she had drunk something – wine, juice, even a glass of that foul-smelling river water would do to ease the dryness in her throat.  
"Damon Laurent, Madame." Marguerite took a step back in spite of herself. The last time she had seen him he had been barely six years old, trailing along after his father, playing at dragon-slaying with his cousins, and terrorising his twin sisters. And now here he was, her own nephew, a grown man who had met all of the expectations his parents had ever set for him.

It was hard to think that they had been so close all of those years ago, when the little boy would present her with flowers ripped away from the royal garden beds and demand that the Comtesse de Thiernot be the damsel in distress while he vanquished the fearsome invisible dragon with his wooden sword. Not that he would probably remember those times. Now what he remembered abut her was more likely gossip and myth than distant memories. It showed in the awkward silence that hung between them and in Damon's gestures as he shifted from foot to foot and scratched his head nervously.

"What is it that you wish to tell me, Monsieur Laurent?" Marguerite encouraged. Damon straightened his back and cleared his throat, before looking directly at her:  
"I have news – whether it is good or bad I leave for you to decide. Rodmilla is dead."


	2. Chapter One: The Unfair Sentence

**Retribution**

**Chapter One:**

**The Unfair Sentence of a Laundry Maid**

_Fifteen years earlier -_

Marguerite turned her face away as the steam billowed upwards. Steam could burn, and she had the marks to prove it! After a few seconds it dissipated and Marguerite could see that there were at least five more pails of water that needed to be boiled in order to fill the tub. Sighing, she picked up her buckets and once again headed outside.

As she headed for the water pump, Marguerite passed her mother. Rodmilla was flittering around like she always did, trying not to ruin her noble hands with the work of a washerwoman. Day after day she shirked the duties given her and tried to do as little as possible. As if she had no sentence to carry out. As if the rules didn't apply to her.

The air outside was cooler than the humidity of the laundry room, and Marguerite took the chance to relax herself, dabbing at her forehead with her apron to clean the sweat off of it. The sky was a brilliant blue, and Marguerite wanted to sit outside and stare at the sky for the rest of the day. She wanted to forget about boiling water, of scrubbing shirts, of dieing sheets.

Whistling distracted her from the sky and she turned to see Nancy heading toward her, a bucket in each hand. Nancy was the closest thing to a friend that Marguerite had in this place. Well, she wasn't a friend at all, really. She was someone who Marguerite could complain to without being scoffed at and looked down upon.

She was grateful that she and Nancy were the only two people at the water pump. She knew Nancy wouldn't tell Madame Arnault about Marguerite slacking off in the courtyard. Madame Arnault's hatred for Rodmilla had caused her to dislike Marguerite as well, despite how hard Marguerite tried to work to change Madame Arnault's opinion and so she could perhaps even recommend Marguerite for release.

Nancy snickered. Marguerite followed her gaze and saw Madame Arnault in the doorway, wagging a finger at Rodmilla, who still tried to act all proud and haughty.  
"Look at her, Nancy!" Marguerite whispered to her as they continued watching.  
"The great Rodmilla de Ghent. What has she been reduced to!" Nancy giggled.  
"It serves her right," Marguerite said, feeling a chill creep into her. "But what about me? The King told my mother that she was to be stripped of her title and I was to be exiled with her in the Americas. But Danielle overrode it. She spoke for us. She said, to my mother and by no means to me, that she was to suffer the same hospitality given Danielle. So why am I here? Slaving away, hauling boiling water, purple dye staining the tips of my fingers, burns scorched into my palms from the iron, and my hands wrinkled from being in hot water for far too long?"

As Nancy gave her a sympathetic look, Marguerite rested against the cool stone wall. Why couldn't she have been sent to live with Jacqueline? Even if she was a dull little thing, it would be far better to live with her than live with her mother in the servants quarters of the castle. Nancy said nothing, but picked up Marguerite's buckets and pumped water into them.

"She made them condemn me for something I didn't do!" Marguerite continued. She couldn't stop. "It was all her doing – she lied to the Queen, not I. I faltered, I didn't say we had a cousin visiting, surely Her Majesty saw that it took me a while to answer? I said nothing to incriminate myself, and yet here I am. I shouldn't be here."  
"Being here's a great deal better than being locked away in prison somewhere, or being left stranded on the edge of the world," Nancy said, handing Marguerite her buckets full of water.

Poor ignorant Nancy. Her parents would be proud of her for securing work at the castle. Her brothers and sisters would look up to her and wish that one day, they too, could aspire to such a position. A position! What Marguerite wouldn't give for one day off, a ride in a carriage, a goblet of wine, a gown of silk. Anything to get away from the humidity of the laundry room would suit her just fine.

"That water won't pump itself!" Madame Arnault stood in the courtyard, shaking a hand at Nancy who scurried back over to the water pump to fill her own two buckets. Marguerite carried hers back to the laundry, feeling the heat of Madame Arnault's glare burn in to the back of her head. She listlessly picked up one of the buckets and dumped the water into the tub as Nancy did the same next to her.

Marguerite watched as her face was distorted in the dirty washing water by the ripples as her fellow workers scrubbed and rinsed the royal linens. Could you ever have told from that reflection how beautiful she once was? How the hard labours she had been forced to perform had marred her milky skin and white-blonde hair? Marguerite thought not.

She could hardly be expected to spend the rest of her life here in this hellhole. How could she make any remnant of a life if her life was spent laundering and bending to other people's will? And what of a husband and a comfortable home? Her mother had dashed all hope for any of that! She didn't even have any money – besides their bread and board they were paid a mere pittance for their work, and Marguerite received far less due to the royal family's wariness towards her and her mother. And that had to stretch far enough to buy cotton to sew the tears in her dress, to purchase smelling salts and lavender oils to ease the odours which infiltrated her nostrils, and to bargain and bribe her colleagues to get whatever other small luxuries they were willing to sell. She raised the final bucket and watched as the water poured over her reflection, drowning the murky red cheeks, the watery blue eyes, the pinched face. This would not do.

She picked up a garment from the pile of washing. She knew it well. That yellow tunic belonged to Prince Henry. He had worn it often when their paths had crossed, when she was still regarded as a girl of noble birth, and he was on the look out for a wife. She drowned the tunic in the tub, hearing a squelching noise as the air surrendered the clothing as Marguerite's thoughts turned to Danielle. Who was she to have a prince propose to her? Had her father a title? Did she have a noble lineage? Auguste de Barbarac was nothing but a wealthy merchant, and his daughter fortunate beyond all belief to have made such an auspicious match, so high above her station. What did she do all day? It was not as if she had any knowledge of anything save farming and baking and sewing. The cinder girl would not stand a chance entertaining the ladies of the court. They had nothing in common. What would they talk about? Perhaps she would be better suited to the laundry, Marguerite thought with derision.

How would Princess Danielle fit in amongst the nobility? If only Marguerite could see that, see her stepsister falter and fumble as she tried to cope with the everyday pressure of living so well. To see the ladies shy away from her, the uncultured wife of Prince Henry. Danielle knew nothing of being refined. Why, she was happier sleeping amongst the soot and ashes of the fireplace with her beloved _Utopia_ than on a mattress like normal people!

A scuffle occurred across the room as Rodmilla defied more orders given her by the senior laundress. She could be forced to do no more than hanging the sheets out to dry and folding the linens – the scrubbing and dieing and mending was too strenuous for her poor fingers. Marguerite rolled her eyes and dragged the heavy waterlogged material back up, grabbing a bar of soap and scrubbing half-heartedly. She had found that her superiors didn't notice the difference between a completely scrubbed piece of clothing and one where all visible stains had simply been washed out. Marguerite simply did not care. Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but not when you were the one doing the cleaning.

She had to get out of there. It was no life, spending all of the day bending to other people's wishes and having no time to fulfil your own. In the laundry there were no young men to flirt with, no chance for any intrigue, and although the gossip was good, Marguerite was left with an ache to be among those who were the subject of the tirades, rather than being forced to merely talk about them. But how?

She rinsed the tunic, watching as the white soap suds slipped off it and were left floating on the surface of the grey water. Wringing it out, she handed it to a young girl who offered to hang it up to dry. As Marguerite reached for the next item in the pile, she felt the coarseness of hair instead of the soft feeling of material and recoiled. A wig? It must have been put in the wrong pile. She put it aside so that she could put it away later.

As she continued with her washing, Marguerite's thoughts were on the wig. She had never had to use one, as her hair had always been long and thick, and she was proud of the golden allure it gave her among a sea of brunettes. But when people became older, and lost their looks, she supposed that one of their only options to improve themselves would be to change the appearance of their hair. The Lady d'Arcy had worn a wig – and had needed to as well, to hide her almost-bald scalp. If Marguerite had been born with that horrid dark hair that Jacqueline had, she supposed that she would have resorted to something else too, to alter her hair colour.

The gown that she was now washing was heavy with water, and it required every bit of strength she had built up from working in the laundry over the past three months to hoist it up and remove the excess water from the material.

What really stood between her and her life? Simply this dress! She was still herself, no matter what any one called her or forced her to do. She would still be herself when she got out of here. And this dress … and that wig … could be the very things she needed to transform herself. After all, Danielle had managed it.


	3. Chapter Two: Escape

**Retribution**

**Chapter Two:**

**Escape**

Marguerite couldn't sleep, and this time, it wasn't because of the straw mattress that scratched against her back at night so she would wake red and itchy in the dawn. Her mind was running through all of the holes in her plan, and what she should do if her worst thoughts manifested themselves. She had to plan carefully. She could not afford for this to go wrong.

She listened intently for the snuffing out of candles, the hushing voices of the servants she shared an overcrowded room with, the closing scrape of the door, and then the heavy footsteps of the guards as they began their nightly rounds. She listened as one by one, each girl fell asleep, exhausted by the day's work. She waited, counting as minutes and hours passed, making sure that everyone was huddled under their covers before she made her first move.

Careful not to disturb Nancy, Marguerite crawled out of the bed, wrapping her thin shawl around her shoulders. The coldness of the stone floor seeped through Marguerite's thin stockings and froze the balls of her feet. Nancy's deep snoring wavered as Marguerite moved past her, and Marguerite was afraid that she had broken Nancy's slumber. She stood, and watched as Nancy tossed in her sleep, murmured to herself, and drifted back to her rhythmic breathing. After tiptoeing around the other sleeping bodies, Marguerite pressed herself up against the door, and listened for the hollow tapping of the guardsmen's boots.

As they drew nearer, she held her breath and closed her eyes. She prayed fervently that they would not decide to stop outside of the door and leave her frozen in place. The guards paused. Marguerite could feel her heartbeat vibrating along her body. What if they never left? What if she was stuck right in this spot until daylight came? How could she explain to Madame Arnault why she had fallen asleep in the middle of the work day?

Finally, the guards continued on. Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief and carefully opened the door a crack. She listened as the sound of the footsteps disappeared out of earshot, her heartbeat quickening as she stood rigid behind the door. Sensing it was safe, she pulled the door open wide enough for her to slip through. It stuck on its hinge, which made her pull harder on the handle until the door jolted open with a screech.

Her skin prickled as she eased herself through the doorway and gently closed the door. She hurried towards the laundry, darting in between pillars when she thought she heard the low whispers of the guards, or the slam of a door.

She made her way to the storage rooms, which had no windows to let the moonlight in, and were provided no candles to light the way. She felt her way in the darkness, past the soaps and scrub-boards, for her dress' hiding place. Where had she put it? She ran her fingers along the wooden compartments. Two shelves down, four shelves across, at the back. Grabbing the dress, she pulled it over her head, trying desperately to keep from knocking anything over while lacing it up. She reached in again, and this time her fingers brushed against the wiry hair of the wig. She pulled it from the shelving, and after fumbling around with her hair until she had it pinned up on her head, fitted the wig over it as best as she could manage.

From the laundry, Marguerite only had to slip into the courtyard and out through an archway to find herself in Hautefort's manicured gardens. Staying close to the dark shadow cast by the castle's wall, she edged her way around the building until she was just a mere six feet from the cover of the wall to the seclusion of the maze of hedging.

Canvassing the gardens to make sure she would be unseen, Marguerite skittered across into the maze and, keeping herself pressed to the darker side of the hedge, wound herself up in its twists and turns until she purposely found herself at a dead end. There she collapsed, her dress rustling about her as she made herself comfortable on the dewy grass. Wrapping her arms around her, she leaned her head against the thick foliage and watched the crescent moon slowly die. Marguerite closed her eyes, and let slip a single prayer that she would safely escape the castle and find a better life. The life that she was meant to have.

* * *

A loud clanging stirred Marguerite from her sleep and she awoke angry, until she realised it was not Madame Arnault standing over her and banging a pan, but rather the palace gates being pulled open, ready for the influx of courtiers. She had seen it enough times to imagine what was happening. They would be coming now, a grand procession of Comtes and Comtesses, Ducs and Duchesses, Marquis and Marquise, in their stately carriages with their golden coats of arms fastened to the doors and their liveried footmen hanging off the back. The lesser nobles would have to fight their own way in, past the rabble of peasants begging food and money and forgiveness from the palace guards, who would be trying their best to allow the nobility in while keeping the peasants out.

Marguerite moved around the maze until she came upon a bench. She nestled herself on it, keeping her posture straight, her hands quickly passing over her wig and bodice to make sure her disguise was in order. She would have killed for a glimpse at a looking glass to calm her fear. Stretching out her arms to relieve them of the aches she had suffered during the night, she proceeded to wait.

Soon enough, the giggles of some of the ladies could be heard as they paraded around the gardens, passing gossip between them. Marguerite strained to hear their conversation, and longed to find them and join them. But she had to remain where she was. She had to stay until it was late enough for no one to be surprised by her leaving court so early. But she also had to leave before someone discovered her missing. It was hours after sunrise. Madame Arnault would already have everyone on the lookout.

Marguerite bided her time, creeping further and further out of the maze, until she could see the courtiers milling about the courtyard, and edge closer and closer to the castle gates. She waited until a large carriage halted before the gate and the guards asked its driver the obligatory questions. Taking the opportunity, Marguerite stepped out of the hedging, and hurried towards the gates.

Two of the guards turned from the peasants they were turning away and looked at her intently, their beady eyes filling her with dread. Marguerite was convinced they saw through her, and were at any moment going to take her by the arm and rip off her wig. But instead, they pushed the peasants aside and led her past them, and then Marguerite was out of the castle grounds. She had freed herself from servitude. She had freed herself from her mother. She had freed herself to live her own life.

* * *

Marguerite had thought that after spending three months of standing at a wash troth that she would be able to make the journey from Hautefort Castle to the manor quite easily on foot. After all, the castle was plainly visible from the surroundings of the house - it couldn't have been too far away. But as the sun rose higher in the sky, Marguerite's feet ached and she had only just reached the valley in between the two residences. She wanted to collapse down on to the soft grass and never walk another step. However, the thought of being caught and driven back down into the laundry - or worse, holed up in prison or sent to the criminal colony in the Americas - forced her to trudge up the hill.

Perhaps it had taken longer, because she had kept off the main road? Thank God there were no peasants farming in the fields she passed, no one to ogle and question why a woman dressed as a noble was traipsing around the countryside by herself. She could think of no reasonable explanation she could offer them. The sooner she stepped out of this gown and into her own clothes, the better.

Out of breath and her heart racing, Marguerite made it to the manor - a fugitive sneaking into a place that she was once driven to in a carriage. It had never felt like home. How could it have, when there were pig-sties in their very front yard? She had hated the manor the moment she had seen it. Auguste de Barbarac had never been rich like her father, the Baron de Ghent, had been, nor had he been as handsome. What had her mother been thinking, dragging her and Jacqueline away from the comfortable rooms in Avignon and out of the perfect life they had there to this dismal farm, this nothingness? Its only saving grace was its proximity to the castle, and with that the opportunity for an acquaintance with Prince Henry.

And there was never enough money. Her mother had expensive tastes, and liked to lavish gifts upon Marguerite, which she'd happily accepted. But then the manner of their living had diminished, and Rodmilla began to sell off servants and household objects to keep the balance. God knows they received little profit from the servants' stall at the market. Eventually, Monsieur le Pieu struck that bargain with Rodmilla, providing them with an income in exchange for having Danielle as his own servant, and taking the remainder of their possessions as insurance. But then Marguerite's own fortunes came crumbling down around her. No title. No marriage to Prince Henry. Hautefort she had managed, but the wrong side of it. She got condemnation and dirty linens, when she had been expecting adoration and gold.

Though Jacqueline seemed to have done well out of the situation. She was there now, being led about by her servants and shown how they mucked out the animal shelters, collected the honeycomb from the beehives, and tended to the gardens. That Captain Laurent was there, too, shielding himself from the dirt that flew at him, and shooing away the animals that came too close for comfort. His austere face broke into a smile as he looked at Jacqueline. Marguerite frowned. Was everyone to be happy but her? Why was her lot in life made so hard?

Pleased to observe that the majority of Jacqueline's servants appeared to be helping their mistress outside, Marguerite sneaked into the manor, and made her way up to her old room. She prised open the door. This was not her bedroom. Her old bed was still there, and her curtains still hid the windows, but the floor was swept clean. There was no armoire, no knick knacks on the table, no books laid out purely for the beauty of their covers, no gowns discarded on the floor. It was like she had never existed in this room. It was a room for houseguests now, nothing more.

She knew Jacqueline well enough to know that her belongings simply wouldn't be disposed. Jacqueline was utterly sentimental. But they wouldn't be inside the house, on display for all to see. Captain Laurent would have advised her of that. No, they'd be somewhere out of the way. Somewhere ... outside.

She hurried back down the stairs and out to where the outbuildings were clustered together. The stables and the servants' quarters were out of the question - they were too full of horses and people to be able to store trunks of dresses and jewellery and shoes – leaving the storehouse as the only other option. Marguerite headed towards it, opened the door, and was faced with reserves of flour and grain, and vegetables that were not yet required on the manor's chopping boards. She was about to turn around and walk out, where out of the corner of her eye she spied a brass plaque mounted on a trunk, reflecting the sunlight that was streaming through the door.

She settled herself in front of it, and ran her fingers over the plaque, feeling the rough etching that spelled her name. She had made Rodmilla pay to have it affixed to her luggage, in case it went missing on the journey from Avignon to the manor. When Rodmilla had told her it was nonsense, and that all of the trunks would end up at the same place, named or unnamed, nine-year-old Marguerite had stamped her feet and demanded that it was the least her mother could do, since she was sending them to live in the wilderness.

She gingerly opened the clasp and lifted the lid of the trunk. It was filled with her old dresses and chemises. Gowns of russet and peacock blue, pale azure and burgundy - Marguerite longed to take them all with her. But she could only choose one. One outfit to last her until she could start rebuilding her life. One that no one would associate with her. One that she hadn't been seen wearing a hundred times. She knew the one she had to choose. It was a vile green thing in a harsh fabric that one of Rodmilla's friends from Avignon had given to Marguerite when they came to visit. She had wanted to throw it in the fire as soon as she had unwrapped it, but her mother had given her a stern look. It wouldn't have done to be impolite to a guest, and therefore it had sat for four years, squished behind all her expensive, pretty dresses. Now, it finally had a purpose.

She peeled off the stolen gown, and climbed into the green dress. Without the weight of the heavy fabric closing in around her, she felt better. Finding an old woollen cloak to throw around her shoulders, she reluctantly put all of her old dresses back in the trunk.

She certainly could not keep the gown and the wig, now lying on the ground sodden with sweat. Someone would give a description of the missing items, had probably already done so, and if they were found on her she would most definitely be arrested. She would have no chance to fool the guards with batted eyelashes and a quickly spun story. Should she burn them? She examined the dress and the wig. The dress may burn all right, but the wig would make the most acrid stink, her whereabouts would immediately be betrayed to anyone on the hunt for her. And she didn't have the time to stay and watch them be consumed by flames.

And what of her hair? She'd be recognised instantly now that she had foregone the wig. She fumbled about in her trunks for anything that would eradicate the yellow from her hair, but could not find a single jar that would perform it for her. Casting her glance back further, she located her mother's belongings, also neatly ordered. She quickly found a container of gunk she recognised as being the one Rodmilla used to cover the greys in her hair that betrayed her age. Marguerite fingered a dollop, feeling the cold cream slide between her fingers. She quickly unpinned her hair and applied the cream along its length, pleading with it to work as she hid her hair under a snood. She tucked the container into the folds of her dress for future use.

It was well past time to go. The sun was beginning to burn orange - it would be dark before she knew it, and Marguerite needed to get far away from this place. Righting the mess she had created from rummaging through the trunks, she stuffed the stolen dress and wig into a sack, shut the door, and without taking a single look back at the manor, fled to the forest.

* * *

The sky was streaked with an explosion of pink and orange as the sun descended closer to the horizon. The colours were reflected on the surface of the lake, transforming it into something other than it was. Marguerite paused for only a moment to gaze at it, letting the sack she carried slip to the ground.

She had been on the move since her escape from Hautefort, and every last muscle in her body twinged with pain. Her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. But she could not stop yet.

Each rock she heaved into the sack was heavier than the last, and Marguerite began to worry that she wouldn't be able to lift the thing, let alone throw it into the lake. But she needed as many rocks as she could find. She had to make sure that the sack would sink, and take with it any evidence that she had been in the area.

Tying up the opening of the sack, she stumbled her way towards the edge of the cliff where she knew the lake lay waiting to consume her stolen dress and wig. She stood on the cliff, as close to the edge as she dared, watching as ducks swam on the calm surface. Hefting the bag up, she struggled as she swung it back and forth before releasing it from her grasp. The ducks were sent flying as it tumbled down the cliff face and fell with a splash into the water, not two metres away from the side of the lake. Marguerite hoped it would be enough.


	4. Chapter Three: Marianne Ferrière

**Retribution**

**Chapter Three:**

**Marianne Ferrière**

Marguerite was utterly lost. She had followed a path that had taken her from the lake, past the ruins at Amboise, and along the boundaries of several small farms that were preparing for the harvest. Now she had wandered into where the forest grew thick, where the dappled sunlight sifted through the canopy of leaves, where evidence of civilisation ceased.

Every path Marguerite took seemed to lead her in circles. She just saw trees and more trees, and could not distinguish one from another. She couldn't tell if she had already been this way before, or whether the forest was just so big, that she was simply winding her way through it.

She trudged on even when her legs ached and begged for her to rest, hoping that if she kept putting one foot in front of the other, she would make it to the other side alive. Nothing but the darkness would stop her from moving, from putting as much distance between herself and the castle as possible. When the darkness came, Marguerite unwillingly searched for a place where she could stay hidden for the night. She wasn't looking forward to it - even sleeping on rough straw would be better than the cold uneven ground, her night spent lying on the soft grass of the castle gardens preferable to the sticks and bark that littered the forest floor - but it had to be done. She had no desire to be caught and dragged back to the castle to face the dungeons, or hanging, or decapitation.

Marguerite leant against a thick tree trunk, and pulled her cloak tightly around her. The air was getting cooler quickly; the crisp breeze pierced through her clothes into her skin, and before long Marguerite could see white gusts of air puffing from her mouth as she drew breath.

She closed her eyes, but the unfamiliar sounds stopped her from falling asleep. The wind rustled the dead tree leaves. Nocturnal bird calls sounded like the wail of ghosts. Even the trees themselves cracked as they shape shifted into eerie apparitions plotting to grab her and hold her where she was until the Royal Guard came to take her back.

_Ignore it_, Marguerite told herself. _It's only the yowl of a cat, mewling for its milk_. She focused on that image, of a tiny kitten, hungry and anxious, tailing its master while meowing relentlessly, as if that would bring it its food faster. Marguerite's stomach growled at the thought of food.

"Ignore it!" she repeated, hugging her knees to her stomach to keep warm. She had to think of something else. Something that she could fall asleep with her mind on. Like being huddled close to the fireplace in a _Grande Salle_, the roaring blaze warming her. Like falling onto a soft feather mattress and sleeping for ten days straight. Like finding that her entire life had been a dream. A very bad dream. She'd wake up in sheets of blue silk, to be greeted by her very own lady's maid as well as a personal attendant who would acquiesce to her every desire. If she wanted truffles, or wine, or some of that Spanish chocolate Henry had offered her, she'd be given it as soon as she had asked. And she wouldn't ever, ever have to wear the coarse woollen cloth of her servant's garb again. She'd send for dresses from Paris and Brussels. Satin, red. And lace gloves from Bruges. And jewelled hair combs with sapphires and amethyst! She'd be able to afford them, of course. Her husband would be a member of the aristocracy, naturally, and would be only too glad to pay for the happiness of his young wife. And as they were invited to dine in the halls of the great houses of the nobility, Marguerite would be the envy of every woman in France.

She felt her eyelids grow heavy, and smiled. Perhaps she would get to sleep out here after all. What else could she have, in her new life? A grand chateau that she could host lavish balls in, with manicured gardens that she could take turns about. Her parties would become the talk of the town. "Have you ever been to one of Lady Marguerite's balls?" the women would ask one another. They'd smile, and eye each other knowingly, before throwing their heads back and ... _cackling_? What on earth would they be cackling about? The women in her mind gave their answer bluntly: "Why would _we_ ever go to a ball held by a treacherous servant?"

Marguerite's eyes blinked open, the cackling of the figures of her imagination still echoing in her head. Of course she couldn't have balls, and gowns, and noblemen falling at her feet. One mention of Marguerite de Ghent would send even the more daring courtiers running back to the safety of their estates to demand that their stewards hunt her down. The nobility never wanted to side against the King. She was stupid for letting herself imagine otherwise.

Even the voices inside her head were laughing at her, she thought as another howling laugh reached her ears. Or were there others in the forest? She peered into the darkness, trying to catch glimpses of the faces she thought were there. _Stop it_, she sternly reprimanded herself. _There are no people in the forest laughing at you_. _There are only rabbits, and wild pigs, and birds, and gypsies._

Gypsies! She'd only ever seen them once, at the ball on the feast of St Jude. She'd kept away from them, barely noticing them, looking instead for Prince Henry and planning for her future inside her head. But what grim stories she had heard!

She cursed under her breath. Why hadn't she thought of bringing something to defend herself with? A dagger, a candlestick, even a bread knife would have done. She looked around for a menacing enough fallen tree branch and clutched it in her trembling hands. Gypsies and highwaymen could be lurking anywhere.

Why did she put herself through this? She wasn't this person. She wasn't some farmer's daughter who revelled in the outdoors, or that of an astronomer who could happily lie back and name every constellation she saw. She felt more like a common beggar, despite the familiarity of her own clothes. She had no place to go, no family she could speak of. She would have to reinvent herself to survive. She would have no security. She would have to claw her way up to where she wanted to be. Where she _deserved_ to be.

*** * ***

Digging her hand behind her back, Marguerite pulled out a stone that she had been lying on all night. She could feel the grit of dirt cling to her skin, and she quickly wiped it from her cheek, hoping that it wouldn't leave a smear. She breathed deeply and stretched her arms to bring feeling back into her cold limbs. She sat up and sniffed. A musty smell of charcoal reminded her of the time Danielle had burned the bread, leaving it baking in the oven for too long while she went off to play with that stick of a painter friend she'd had.

The wind picked up, and her eyes watered as they tried to fight against the smoke which was blowing in her direction. Clambering up from the ground, she could see the licks of flame eating away at the trees and black curls of smoke rising above the forest. The crackling of fire grew louder, but Marguerite was unable to move, transfixed as she watched sparks dart into the air as dead trees exploded from the heat.

An old woman came running towards her, flailing her arms which had been darkened by ash, her mouth opening and closing to reveal two rather brown teeth. The rumbling of the fire made her inaudible, until she had virtually passed Marguerite.

"Run for your life, girl!" she grabbed Marguerite's hand and pulled her along. "It's already taken my master and his beautiful wife and children. The chateau's gone. Half of us poor folk won't live. It's everyone for themselves!" Marguerite tried to keep up with the woman's fast pace, but her lack of food gave her little energy. When Marguerite's foot was hooked in an exposed tree root, she went sprawling to the ground. The old woman didn't stop. "Say a prayer for the Vicomte de Thadèe!" she yelled as she disappeared into the forest.

Marguerite could not have escaped the castle, freed herself from servitude, and spent a frightful night in the forest only to be burned to death. Adrenalin fuelled her, as she untangled herself from the tree and ran. She shielded herself from tree branches and prickly bushes as they scraped her arms. Nothing filled her mind, except the thought of finding the main road, and help, and safety.

A strong headwind made her struggle harder. Leaves slapped her in the face. The crackling of the fire was all she heard. But as the wind stalled the smoke from shrouding Marguerite in ash, she began to feel calmer. She would make it, she determined. She had to.

Finally, she pushed through one last cluster of trees and collapsed on the well-trodden path of the main road. Looking up, she saw a globule of spit fall from the bared teeth of a rearing horse, and scrambled up from the ground before she was trampled.

The horses whinnied as the driver pulled back harshly on the reins, jolting the carriage to a shuddery stop. The carriage door flung open, and an arm gestured her inside. Without a second thought, Marguerite skirted around the horses, and climbed into the carriage.

"Thank you for taking the trouble." Marguerite said, her voice sounding hoarse. Her heart was pounding, and her body jolted as the carriage was set into motion once more. Finally, she looked at the carriage's only other passenger. He was a portly man, with red cheeks, brown whiskers, and an excited look in his eyes as he stared out of the window at the fire-ravaged forest.

"How on earth did this all get started?" he gestured to the smoke that was now receding into the distance.

"The Vicomte de Thadèe's chateau caught fire." Marguerite explained, trying to steady her breathing. She tried to remember what it had looked like. Rodmilla, knowing one of the best ways to improve her social status was being acquainted with others in high places, had procured an invitation or two to the Chateau de Thadèe. White-walled, wasn't it? And surrounded by trees. Rodmilla had said that their house would never lack for warmth, with all of the wood the estate had at its disposal. "And it's so close to the forest, that now everything is alight."

"And you, my poor girl, all alone in the forest. What did you think you were doing, all by yourself?"

"Fleeing," she said truthfully. The man chuckled, his whole body lurching with the effort. Marguerite held her breath. Did he know? Could he see straight through her, that she had naught to do with the fire at all, and would need to be delivered to the guard at the man's next possible convenience?

"Of course you were!" He slapped his knee and gestured out of the window. "We are in the middle of a blazing forest. What else must I have been thinking you were doing? Attending a tea party?" He threw himself into another fit of raucous laughter. Marguerite didn't know what to do, so she focused her attention on the trees that flashed past the window.

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle." The man sobered up, his cheeks still pink from laughing. "I should introduce myself. Renard Cavalier. Merchant of the tide, specialising in anything that requires transportation by water. I'm very fond of the ocean - aren't you?"

"I've never seen it."

"Never seen the sea? Why, Mademoiselle..." He paused and thought for a while. "Pardon me, but I don't seem to know your name."

"Marg -" Marguerite cut herself off, as the cackling ladies filled her head. No, Marguerite is no more. She could never be Marguerite again. "Marianne, monsieur. My name is Marianne Ferrière." Marguerite met Renard's eyes, searching for a sign that he doubted her.

"Ah!" He took her at her word. "Well, you must see the sea, Mademoiselle Ferrière, at least once in your life. The saltiness wafting off the waves, the gulls shrieking overhead, the ships - magnificent vessels! Man conquering the elements. Puts excitement into your blood, the sight does." Marguerite smiled politely, before returning her gaze out of the window.

"How far are you going, Mademoiselle? I can only get you to Lyon."

"I'm not sure."

"No, of course you're not. You've just fled from a burning building, your entire life up in flames. Well, I suppose you'd be needing to find yourself a position? What were you?"

Position! What was she qualified for, besides marrying noblemen and washing linens? The first she could not do, and the second she would never let herself do again. But she had to do _something_ in her new life. She tried to think of all of the trades that were out there, the paltry opportunities for women that existed. If she must have a position to make money to survive, she'd rather it not be too taxing on her. And that ruled out every job she could think of. Every job except for one.

She had known them - the little girls who had peered around doorways watching as Rodmilla gushed over the Vicomte de Thadèe. As Marguerite had stared at the wide eyes of the Vicomte's daughters, she would hear her mother praise her. The Vicomte responded by saying how pretty his daughters were, and how accomplished they'd be when they grew up. He had expressed his want for them to be like Marguerite, Marguerite who would, by Rodmilla's account, be married to Prince Henry by the next moon. She had heard the Vicomte talk of his daughters' favourite activities, their hopes for the future, their fears. And now they were gone. Sadness stationed itself inside Marguerite for only a little while, before being quickly replaced by determination. She could see her way out.

"I was the governess, Monsieur. To the Vicomte de Thadèe's two daughters."

Renard smiled. "Then I know just the place for you."

A rumbling growl sounded. Renard Cavalier placed his hand over his stomach and grinned at her. "But first, I think we'd best get something to eat."

*** * ***

Marguerite gingerly followed Renard as he swung open the door to an inn and sat down at the nearest table. Marguerite did the same, checking that no beer had been slopped on her chair before she sat on it. Her mother had always warned her against patronising inns and taverns. They were places frequented by drunken louts and people of low morality. Filthy places, Rodmilla had said, where girls with loose morals tried to lure themselves husbands, or else a few francs for their troubles.

But Marguerite had no choice. If she wanted to be fed, the inn it would have to be.

The inside didn't look all that bad, Marguerite supposed, looking at the whitewashed walls that were hung with stained tapestries and paintings to keep the room warm during the cold hours of the night. Antlers were proudly displayed over the doorways. The head of a deer was stuffed and mounted over the fireplace, gazing sadly with its glass eyes at the patrons consuming its kindred. Long wooden tables filled the room, the scratches and marks evident of how full the inn became after dark. But it was daylight now, and only one other group of people were present in the inn.

From their clothes, they were obviously wealthy, and from their accents, enjoying a rest before climbing back into their carriages and continuing on to the north. But their behaviour was not the result of years of training in etiquette - it was more a gross imitation of how they thought they should act. Marguerite shuddered. They were part of the _noblesse de lettres._

A maid, her hair falling out of its pins, her apron smudged with fat and grease from the kitchen, who looked as if she had the loose morals Rodmilla had talked about, recited the menu. Renard showed no concern about the maid's wild looks, and when Marguerite took too long to order, ordered for her, flipping the maid coins for both of their meals.

"Now, Mademoiselle, about this position. I have three nieces, and their last teacher has just left them. Got herself married. So they have been left without a teacher and my brother is in despair. He wants them to have a good education."

Marguerite tried to pay attention to Renard's offer, but she couldn't help glancing over his shoulder at where the other patrons sat. Look at them, with their gaudy clothes and excessive amount of trimming, laughing too loud as they talked, leaving their mouths open as they chewed their food! How anyone could think that people who bought themselves any old title should be considered part of the nobility was beyond her. To truly be noble, you had to have breeding, lineage, property, propriety. Looking around the inn, she saw people with anything but.

"They're lively, but they're girls, so how much of a handful could they be?" Renard continued, resting his elbows on the table. "And since you've taught the children of a vicomte, well!"

Marguerite gave him another smile. True, how hard could teaching girls be? Her position would simply be passing on knowledge that she had already gleaned from her mother's lessons years ago. Her lie about the vicomte would be inconsequential.

She glanced back to the other group as Renard drummed his hands on the table.

"Have you heard?" one of them said, a man in green. "Apparently, some girl's run off from the castle. The entire kingdom's being put on alert to find her." Marguerite felt a chill run down her spine. She prayed once again that her disguise would not betray her as she concentrated on eavesdropping on their conversation.

"What's so important about her I cannot fathom," the woman beside the man in green - his wife? - raised her glass and drank from it. "A servant! If you lose one, you can simply get another."

"You have all the credentials Richaud is looking for," Renard's words blocked out their voices. "It wouldn't be a demotion for you, Mademoiselle, working for just us common folk instead of a high-and-mighty vicomte."

"There's no saying what some royals will do to keep their mistresses," another man, at the other end of the table, put a finger to his lips. This sent the table into hysteria.

"Do you think old Francis is still up for a mistress?" the man in green elbowed his friend next to him.

"Well, it'd hardly be the prince, would it?" his wife answered. "He's only three months into his marriage - it's a poor thing if that has collapsed so quickly. Though marriages for love often do."

"You'd be paid whatever Thadèe paid you, be sure of it," Renard nodded as if to confirm what he had been saying.

"It all sounds ... wonderful," Marguerite gave an unsure smile, her thoughts still on what she had heard the other table saying. The maid returned with their meals, placing a plate of rabbit and vegetables in front of Marguerite. At the smell of the food, Marguerite eagerly picked up her knife and fork. She felt as if she hadn't eaten in days.

The rabbit was lukewarm at best, as if the plates had been left sitting out for a while before the maid remembered to bring them to the table. Renard didn't seem fussed by the cold food. Marguerite took a bite of the rabbit, feeling the meat sliding down into her stomach. She felt better already.

"Idiots, all of you!" The innkeeper, who had been clearing away the used plates from the other table, stood over the man in green, with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Had the Guard in here just yesterday, I did, asking all kinds of questions about the runaway. Had I seen her, did I know where she'd gone and all that?"

"And what did you say?" The woman asked.

"Who are they looking for?"

"What does she look like?"

"Why she's none other than the princess' stepsister," the maid informed them. "The blonde-haired, pointy-nosed, conceited witch herself!" Marguerite put her hand to her nose. It wasn't an accurate description, was it? "What was her name again? Marie? Maralinda?"

"Marguerite," the woman offered. "Marguerite de Ghent. That girl only wishes she were the mistress of Prince Henry!"

"Well, I hope she falls down a crevice somewhere and rots. Despicable girl!" the man in green bit into his leg of lamb. What? What did they think she had done to deserve such an end? Marguerite took a bite out of the dry bread and chewed, willing the red she knew was there to disappear from her face. Luckily, Renard seemed too focused on gorging himself on pork to notice the change in her behaviour.

"She should accept her fate in life, just like the rest of us do." And they were hypocritical, too! How well had they accepted their fates, doling out money for a made-up title of their very own, instead of remaining the merchants and armourers and weavers they had started off as? She was reclaiming what was hers - they were grasping at something they were never meant to be.

"Oh, she'll be found easily enough," the innkeeper conceded. "Someone like that never changes. You could spot her a mile away. That affected in her manner."

The maid agreed, leaning over the man in green's shoulder to top up the table's drinks. "I hear that when she was a servant in the castle laundry, she demanded satin sheets to sleep on, just as if she were an honoured guest of His Majesty!"

"Not a shred of dignity!" the woman shook her head. Marguerite was horrified. How could these people that she didn't even know form these awful opinions about her?

All she wanted to do was get back in the carriage, and stay at Renard's brother's house minding his daughters for the rest of her life. Anything to stay away from the nasty criticism she had just heard expressed. She quickly finished her meal and pushed her plate away from her.

"Yes, you'd do very well with my nieces, Mademoiselle," Renard nodded to himself. "You'd be able to straighten them out."


	5. Chapter Four: Governing Charges

**Retribution**

**Chapter Four:**

**Governing Charges**

The carriage finally clattered through the gates of Lyon. After spending days of seeing nothing but fields and farmland, dirt roads and inconsequential villages, and being knocked about as the horses strained to pull the carriage up hills, and then struggled to keep their footing as it chased them down the other side, the imposing buildings and the bustle of the city felt almost foreign to Marguerite. The rows of stone houses crammed along the sides of rutted roads were claustrophobic when compared to the endless rolling hills and green countryside.

The horses drew to a stop, and the driver called out to the passengers that they had arrived. Marguerite watched as Renard blinked open his tiny eyes. Sleeping on long journeys appeared natural to him; after a few words as they supped at an inn or stretched their legs while taking in the fresh air, he'd slide into the carriage and before long be dozing as if he were asleep in his own bed. She'd had less success. Each twist in the road, each pothole they bumped over shook her awake to the extent that Marguerite felt as if she'd spent the last week keeping a constant vigil.

Renard clambered out of the carriage into the darkness of the night, and rapped on the door of a large house. The door creaked open, and a distinguished-looking man, slightly stooped but still tall, with dark hair and a thick beard, greeted Renard. As the candlelight flickered, Marguerite studied the clothing he wore. His hose and doublet looked very fine indeed, as if they had been woven by a master.

The man clapped Renard on the shoulder and began leading him inside when Renard looked back at the carriage. In spite of herself, Marguerite edged away from the window. She was apprehensive - what would become of her if this plan did not work? If Renard had no other option to offer her, would she be thrown onto the cobblestone street and left for dead? What if she could not channel Rodmilla's lessons after all, and Renard's nieces learned nothing from her? She dared not move from the carriage.

Renard waved her over to him, beckoning with a gloved hand as the two brothers waited expectantly on the front doorstep.

"Renard, what have you brought me from your great travels?" his brother took the hint, and moved closer to the carriage, leaving Marguerite with no choice but to alight and face her destiny.

"Richaud, may I introduce you to Mademoiselle Ferrière? She can look after your girls, and give them some sort of an education."

"Highly recommended?" Richaud raised his eyebrows as he studied her.

"Would I dare bring you any other?" Renard laughed. "Her last post was with a vicomte!" Richaud seemed content with this, and followed them both into the house.

Marguerite tried to look around, but there was barely anything in the entranceway to give her an indication of what kind of family lived there, save the intricate square of carpet that covered the floor. The remainder of the rooms had their doors shut.

A flustered woman hurried up the hallway towards them, her cheeks flushed. Strands of thread hung from her apron. Richaud noticed her, and gave her a disapproving look, before calling her over.

"Wife! Come here. I have found us a girl to look after the children."

"Excuse my appearance, Mademoiselle. I've been working, and I lost track of the time."

"She should have stopped by twilight." Richaud turned from his wife. Marguerite decided to bob a curtsey to her nonetheless.

"Catherine! How have you been keeping?" Renard embraced his sister-in-law, who rubbed her squinted eyes before hugging him in return. As she turned her attention to Marguerite, she pushed back her mousy hair that had fallen in wisps around her sallow face. Her small dark eyes bore into Marguerite as she considered whether Marguerite was good enough to mind her daughters. Finally, she nodded and stood by her husband.

"Perhaps you'll join me in some wine, Renard, while Catherine shows Mademoiselle Ferrière to her room? It's late, and I'm sure she'll need a good night's sleep before she begins with the girls in the morning." Richaud opened one of the doors and disappeared through it. Renard nodded to Marguerite and Catherine before joining his brother.

"Follow me," Catherine turned to Marguerite and smiled.

The house was a rabbit warren of hallways, haphazardly forking off here and there, and Marguerite was too tired to keep track of where they were going. All she could think of was the bed that was waiting for her, and with that, the promise of the first solid hours of sleep she had had in days.

The room Catherine showed her barely had space enough to fit the longed-for bed, but as the door was shut and Marguerite slid under the blanket, the quickness of her heart began to slow. Tomorrow, she would wake up and start her new life.

* * *

The brightness of the morning sunlight woke Marguerite, and she longed to spend the entire day curled up in bed. But a deal had been struck - the Cavaliers had offered her lodging and food and a few coins here and there when they could be spared, in return for educating their three daughters. And she was to start today.

Unwillingly, she pulled herself out from under the warm covers, and surveyed the tiny room through bleary eyes. A dress hung on the hook on the back of the door, a pitcher of water and a basin stood on the table. Marguerite washed the grit of days on the road away from her face and limbs, and then climbed into the dress.

A meagre meal of bread and butter awaited her in the kitchen, once she had located it by following the smell of bacon that permeated the house. She chewed on the bread and sipped the glass of water given her as she watched the cook dart away from the fat spitting from the pan, and heard her curse Monsieur Renard for his fancy palate.

After the cook had directed her to where the girls waited for her tuition (Go left at the door, Mademoiselle, then right at the clock. From there straight on - mind the stairs, won't you, the top one's easily tripped over - and then it is the fourth door to your left), Marguerite slowly made her way to the room. The door was slightly ajar.

Catherine stood in the middle of the room, the hem of her dress pinned up so she wouldn't trip over it in the course of her day's chores. Her appearance did not improve any in the light that streamed through the large picture window.

Three girls stood or sat in various locations around the room. Catherine had briefly told her about them last night. Corinne was the eldest of them. She was fifteen, and built like her mother, caring for nothing but reading philosophy books passed down to her from her brothers. Therese was the second daughter. Though only thirteen she was already taller than Corinne. And last was nine year old Juliette, who wanted nothing more than to grow up.

"But why must we have a teacher at all?" Therese turned to her mother from where she had been standing at the window. "I could barely listen to the last one with a straight face. The falsehoods she tried to teach us!"

"Therese, it doesn't befit you to be so mean, though perhaps you are right. She was questionable in her thinking. But this one will be better, my girls. This one has worked in a real nobleman's house, and you're to pay special care to learn what she teaches you, if you're all to become great ladies one day."

"But Maman!" Juliette stamped her foot on the wooden floor, her carefully curled brown hair bobbing up and down from her effort.

"No, Juliette! I will have nothing said against her. Though she certainly sleeps long."

Marguerite waited a few moments before creaking open the door, hoping they didn't realise she had been listening to their conversation. Catherine whirled around, and looked her up and down.

"The dress suits you, my dear. When I heard that you'd lost everything in that fire, well! I had to give you something. I shall have your own dress washed today. For now, please make yourself comfortable. The girls will show you where everything is. I hardly set foot in this room, truth be told. I'm at a loss to know what that chest of drawers contains, let alone where any teaching materials are hid."

As soon as Catherine had shut the door on them, the three girls jumped at Marguerite.

"What's our first lesson to be, Mademoiselle?"

"What was your last lesson?"

"How to embroider cushions. How dull!" Corinne dropped the book she had been reading in her lap. "Our father is the proprietor of an atelier, Mademoiselle. We've been working with thread since infancy."

"That just shows what a goose Mademoiselle _B_ê_te_ was! I'm glad she's gone." Therese came away from the window, and plopped herself on the sofa next to Corinne. "Have you anything to teach us of the world, Mademoiselle?"

"Of literature?" Corinne suggested.

"Of kings and queens? How I long to live in a chateau, with servants to wait on me hand and foot. I bet you had that, Mademoiselle, when you were working at that great earl's house."

"Vicomte, Juliette," Corinne gently corrected her. "There's a difference."

"I've had something like that in my lifetime," Marguerite admitted. How long ago that all seemed now! Danielle standing in the alcove of the dining room, waiting to pour the water, or fetch the salt, or re-cook the eggs. Paulette bringing freshly picked flowers to Marguerite's room every single day. Maurice mending the broken chandeliers and chaises that had become too shoddy and returning them to respectability, so that the manor would be ready if Prince Henry ever chose to 'drop by'. "Perhaps, for today, I could combine all three. How would you like that?"

The girls clambered on to the sofa, and Marguerite sat opposite them, preparing to test her story on a willing audience.

"Once upon a time ..."

* * *

"Here they are!" Richaud smiled indulgently as Corinne, Therese and Juliette each bobbed curtseys before him and then took their places around the old oak banquet table. "Is she teaching you well, my girls?"

"Yes, Father," they chorused.

"My boys, Philippe and Christophe, had a proper education of course. Latin and algebra and what have you," Richaud addressed Marguerite. "Male tutor. Highly recommended. Prepared them to attend the university. To make gentlemen out of themselves. For the girls, though, it doesn't matter quite so much who teaches them, just so long as they have something to fill their heads with."

Catherine rose from her chair. "I'll take you to the kitchen, Mademoiselle. I believe the cook has kept some food aside for you there."

"What?" Richaud banged his fist on the table. "Nonsense! Mademoiselle Ferrière must dine with us! We're not so very high-and-mighty that we cannot have her sat at our table. Tell Cook to prepare another place."

Soup was served first, followed by a beef stew that was hungrily devoured by Renard, each mouthful quickly succeeded with the comment of how he must soon settle down so he could enjoy meals like this every night instead of the slop he was left with whilst on the road. Juliette and Therese nudged each other every so often and giggled in some secretive game, while their father told their uncle of how Richaud's eldest child, Philippe, and his new wife were moving to Lyon so he could help out in the atelier, and that Christophe was home after graduating from the university.

"Here's the laggard now," Richaud boomed as a man in his early twenties entered the room. "Christophe, say hello to your uncle, and to Mademoiselle Ferrière, the girl's new governess."

"Uncle Renard. Mademoiselle Ferrière," he bowed, before shaking hands with his father and hugging his mother.

"And how is Daphne?" Catherine asked after Christophe had sat down and the cook had brought out his share of the dinner.

"Daphne's his fiancée!" Therese blurted out. "They were engaged two weeks ago!" Juliette giggled along with her sister and clapped her hands together.

"Girls!" Catherine admonished.

"Christophe, you should have heard the story Mademoiselle Ferrière told us!" Corinne turned to her brother. "She used the names of Prince Henry and Princess Danielle, but in a made-up story of how they met."

"She must be a very creative woman," Christophe nodded towards Marguerite.

"It was so romantic!" Therese clutched at her heart and pretended to swoon.

"She turned the princess into a servant," Corinne said. "Father, is that really true? Was Princess Danielle really a servant before she met Prince Henry?"

"Mere gossip. Mademoiselle, in future please refrain from filling the girls' minds with such nonsense. Gossiping is such an unbecoming trait in a woman. Better she be serene and speak little than spill everyone's business everywhere, believing everything she hears and repeating lies to her friends and neighbours. Stick to facts and domestic chores and etiquette, and leave the gossip for the tavern crawlers."

"That stepsister she had. _She_ can't be real, surely! So awful. I couldn't believe she burned the princess's book!"

"I told you she had her reasons for doing so, Corinne."

"But to destroy the thing the princess prized most in the world? Has she no soul, no compassion?"

"Well, there's no need to worry yourselves over it," Catherine interrupted. "The princess has a whole library of books to read, should she want them."

"Who would go to such lengths, blatantly chasing after Prince Henry, without any regard to how she appears to the general public?" Therese's face was pale at the thought. "Not only has she no soul, she apparently has no dignity, either!"

"I wouldn't mind being a princess, and having nice things, and throwing parties every day."

"There's more to being a princess than that, Juliette. You're too little to understand what it's really like."

"I'm not too little! You're just jealous! You want to go live in the castle in Hautefort, with the nice prince."

"It'd be better than living here with you!" Therese turned on Juliette. "You're worse than the vile stepsister, Marguerite! She was vain and air-headed and never with a thought for anyone but herself. Just like you!"

"Girls, girls!" Catherine clapped her hands together to get their attention. "That's quite enough excitement for the dinner table. Let your father and uncle and brother eat in peace."

* * *

Marguerite had had a sleepless night, and after a long morning with the girls, felt sapped of all of her strength. No dignity? No compassion? How could they be so mean? She had tried to explain her side of the story, the way she had seen everything, and still she ended up the villain. It had been hard to keep her rage in check while testing the girls on their grasp of Italian. She wanted nothing more than to explain herself again and again until they began to see the whole situation from her point of view. But pressing the matter further would uncover her identity and jeopardise her position. She couldn't have that.

She settled instead for a shortened work session, and once she had dismissed the girls for the morning with the promise that they would resume lessons after lunch, she began exploring the house. It was an intriguing place, seeming to be two adjoining houses with the adjacent walls knocked out. Moving from the rooms where the Cavaliers lived she came to an area that seemed more like a business than a residence.

Continuing further, she found herself in a room with piles of material draped over every surface. A bolt of fabric, patterned with flowers and birds in as many colours as one could dream, lay on one of the many tables. She picked it up, and felt the cool slipperiness of the silk as it slid through her fingers.

"Do you approve of our work, Mademoiselle?" Catherine spoke, and Marguerite, startled, turned towards her, still holding the silk in her hands.

"You made this?"

"Richaud did, along with his team of weavers," Catherine took the silk from Marguerite and placed it flat on the table. "It is what he does, what his family has done for generations. We make the silks and linens and then sell them on to haberdasheries or to women to sew their own drapes or cushion-covers or clothing. Along that wall are the templates - they are the patterns that we keep so we know how we made these birds and flowers you see here. Some people will come in and commission a pattern, others will have one of their own they will ask us to weave. We make a good living at it, as you can see. We are one of the better silk-makers in Lyon, and with trade picking up as it has been, we hope to one day apply to His Majesty and buy ourselves a title and maybe even a small estate in the country with the money we've been putting by. Juliette has her heart set on it."

"Here you are!" Richaud interrupted.

"Just showing Mademoiselle Ferrière what we do."

"Monsieur La Fier is here to order another dress for his wife. Can you go and help them, my dear? I'll finish showing Mademoiselle around."

"Of course," Catherine nodded, and then made her way to the front of the house.

"Catherine makes up dresses and the like, for the ladies. Poor woman works herself into the ground. Just the other week we had a girl in here demanding we make her a dress for the ball she was to attend the following evening. I would have refused her had her father not offered to pay so much. Poor Catherine will go blind if she spends any more time sewing by candlelight. Invite some girl in and supervise her as she works, I keep saying to Catherine. We can afford it. But she won't hear of it. Wants everything to be done just so like. Has a reputation to uphold, she says."

"How long does it all take?" Marguerite asked, thinking of the dress she now wore, and the others Catherine had promised were coming to replace her supposedly fire-ruined wardrobe.

"Depends. If it's a dress you're after, then it's only a two or three day job if we already have the cloth the customer wants. But to get the right fabric from the thread up, Mademoiselle, that is where the true effort is. When you're following after the girls, we're in here threading at the looms, crashing away at the pedal, cutting the weft from the warp."

Catherine returned. "It's agreed. Tuesday next week. She'll take the green satin."

"Daylight hours only, Catherine. I won't have you ruining your eyes squinting by the faded glow of a candle!" Richaud warned, before retreating back into the workshop.

"Ignore my husband. I am perfectly aware of when my eyes are being damaged, and when they are not. I have three other dresses to finish before then. If I need the night hours to finish them, than I shall work by candlelight, despite Richaud's concerns! Do you sew, Mademoiselle?"

"N-not really," Marguerite stammered, thinking of the large loose stitches she had effected to hold the rips in her laundress' uniform together. She felt her face grow hot. Even nine-year-old Juliette could probably sew neater stitches than she, at nineteen, could!

"Perhaps one day, I might presume to teach you?" Catherine smiled.

The sound of thumping on the door brought them to the window. The brim of a blue hat could be seen. The man had a sword at his waist, the hilt gleaming as the midday sun reflected from it. The gold braid on the shoulder lapels, the stance he took as he waited for the door to be opened to him, and the general finery that decorated his horse caused the heat from Marguerite's face to be replaced by an icy chill. The Royal Guard was here.


End file.
